Sherlock and Redbeard
by Captain Domino
Summary: When Mycroft and Sherlock had gotten home from school to find their parents waiting for them by the front door with the Irish Setter, Sherlock had let out a cry of delight and rushed forward to the dog, who responded enthusiastically. Mummy had beamed, and Daddy had chuckled. Mycroft simply scowled. (Oneshot. Spoilers for HLV.)


Mycroft had always been above emotions. They were messy, and such a waste of valuable time that could be otherwise spent in worthy pursuits of the mind. Sentiment made it so difficult to get to the parts of the brain that _really _mattered – from what he had observed, that is. Mycroft, himself, had no trouble distancing himself from feeling.

Sherlock, on the other hand…

The real trouble had started when their parents had gotten that dog. When Mycroft and Sherlock had gotten home from school to find their parents waiting for them by the front door with the Irish Setter, Sherlock had let out a cry of delight and rushed forward to the dog, who responded enthusiastically. Mummy had beamed, and Daddy had chuckled. Mycroft simply scowled.

"Highly impractical," he had said. "What were you thinking, Mother? Yes, I know that this was your idea. Dogs require maintenance, and that particular breed of dog will require more exercise than most. Caring for that animal will take away from time that could be spent studying."

"Oh, Myc," Mother exclaimed. "It's okay to be a kid, you know! You won't be one for much longer, and we think that a dog will be good for the both of you."

"What's his name?" Sherlock asked from where he sat on the ground, running his long, slender fingers through the dog's fur as the Setter sniffed and licked his chin.

"He doesn't have one," Father said. "You both can come up with a name."

"I'll leave the honours to you, brother dear," Mycroft said, disdain dripping from every word.

Sherlock looked down at the dog, his pale blue eyes narrowed in thought. "Redbeard," he suddenly declared. Mycroft restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Of course his brother _would _name the animal after a pirate.

From that day on, his brother and the dog were joined at the hip, as the saying went. Whenever Sherlock wasn't studying, he was often out, running around with the creature. When Mycroft's window was open, sometimes Sherlock's voice would drift into the room. "Full to the gunwales, Redbeard! We'll give 'em what for!" Nonsense. Utter, complete nonsense.

One day, Redbeard and Sherlock were sitting on the floor of the living room, the boy brushing burrs out of the dog's fur. Mycroft sat in an armchair, reading a book, when, to his surprise, he felt something warm moving in his lap. He looked down in alarm to see that Redbeard had placed his head where his knees met, and was looking up at the adolescent with large eyes.

"Go away," he said, stiffly. The dog didn't comply, but simply tilted his head to the side, as if expecting something.

"He wants you to pet him," Sherlock said. "Go on."

"I don't want to get my hands dirty," Mycroft scoffed. "Off, now. Off."

"He's not dirty!" Sherlock protested. "I always make sure he's clean."

"Nonetheless, it is still an animal, and as such cannot be expected to keep pristine hygienic standards, now can it? Now go _away._"

Redbeard let out a low whine, then removed his head.

"Dumb animal," Mycroft muttered to himself. Sherlock heard, and leaped to his feet.

"He's not _dumb!_" the boy shouted. "He's extremely clever, aren't you, Redbeard?"

Redbeard went over to sit at Sherlock's feet, gazing up at his dark-haired master, a look of puzzlement on the creature's face, as though wondering what was causing the boy to shout.

"That doesn't mean much, coming from you," Mycroft replied bitingly. "You're almost as stupid as your animal."

"No I'm not! And Redbeard isn't either, so just shut up!"

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "I've told you, brother mine, time and time again, that sentiment is such a disadvantage. You're far too attached to that dog. And it is such a waste of emotion. I see by your left hand that you've been disregarding your studies, again. What would Mummy say if you failed your classes? Maybe then she'd see that you're not as smart as she, somehow, thinks you are."

"My grades aren't slipping," Sherlock scowled. "I'm doing just as well as I was before! You're just jealous that Redbeard doesn't like you as much!"

Oh, why didn't Sherlock understand? He really _was _such a stupid boy. Mycroft couldn't believe they shared the same gene pool.

"I am not…_jealous, _as you so inaptly put it. I don't have time for emotions, Sherlock, and neither should you. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, and I never lose. I am above feeling. Feeling, well, it never ends well, as has been proven over and over again. This won't either, if you carry on like this."

Of course, Sherlock failed to heed Mycroft's advice. He was just as attached as ever to his dog, and, as Mycroft had predicted, Sherlock's grades slowly, gradually began to slip. It had only taken a few years since Mother had had that atrocious idea to get a dog for his brother to receive his first _B._ Such a disappointment. Though Mycroft knew he was the smarter of the two, Sherlock had potential; he gave him that. But sentiment, as it always did, had gotten in the way.

...

* * *

...

Something was wrong with Redbeard.

"Come on, boy!" Sherlock called as he stood by the open door, which led out to the night. It was a Friday night, and Sherlock, excited to have a few extra hours before he had to go to bed, wanted to spend that time with Redbeard. He was the perfect companion, the perfect first mate. And he really was a clever dog, much cleverer than most. He listened to Sherlock, and he always seemed to know when something was wrong, like when Mycroft degraded him, or when the other children at school made fun of him when he said something intelligent. Why did they laugh? _He _should be the one laughing, not them. They were all so slow. _They _were the stupid ones. Until they had met the other children, Sherlock had been convinced by Mycroft that he really was an idiot. He knew, now, that this wasn't true at all. But whatever was happening, Redbeard seemed to instinctively know. And, better yet, he knew how to make it better. Just one sloppy kiss could wash away all the day's stress and sadness, and Redbeard had plenty to spare. Though his presence was the only thing _really_ needed. Simply the dog's large form curled up at his feet in his bed would make his whole day better, and the sound of his deep, even breathing helped the boy drift into a peaceful sleep. Sherlock loved Redbeard like he had never loved anyone or anything before, and Redbeard loved him back unconditionally. Each of them knew the other inside out.

That is what tipped Sherlock off to the fact that something was wrong. Redbeard normally loved going outside. In fact, they had been out earlier, until Mummy had called them in for dinner. What was wrong now?

"Redbeard," Sherlock said, more urgency in his voice now. "Come. Come to me."

Redbeard slowly walked forward, his step unsure as he looked out the door. His body language clearly said that he didn't want to go outside, and this worried Sherlock on a number of levels. He knelt next to his dog, and Redbeard's tail thumped on the hardwood floor.

Sherlock frowned down at his dog's face. Even in the dim light he could see that Redbeard's pupils were dilated far too much. This wasn't good.

It was only after Redbeard started running into things in broad daylight that he managed to convince Mother and Father that something really was wrong, and that he wasn't overreacting.

"Progressive Retinal Atrophy," the vet said, though Sherlock had already known, deep in his gut. Redbeard was going blind. It would take awhile for total blindness to take effect, and aside from that condition, Redbeard was perfectly healthy. But still, Sherlock was miserable. What sort of first mate couldn't see? The vet had said that there was no cure, and had advised the Holmes family simply to not move furniture around, and to keep the floor tidy so that Redbeard wouldn't have trouble. That was all they could do, prepare for the inevitable blindness.

"Many dogs with PRA are able to lead happy lives," the vet told the stricken boy, but he wasn't listening. He had tuned the irritating woman out the moment she had said there was no cure. Why wasn't there a cure? There had to be. There _had _to. Even if Sherlock had to find one himself.

For hours, Sherlock pored over every book he could find that could give him some clue, any clue at all to cracking this. He already had a chemistry kit he had received for Christmas, and used that to his advantage. He completely disregarded his schoolwork as he mixed chemicals, peering into his microscope at the compounds, hoping to hit upon the right mixture, over and over again, but with no success. For the first time ever, Sherlock received an _F _on his report card.

"Why should it matter? I'm smarter than all of them anyway!" he snarled, swiping slides, his head bent close to his microscope to hide the tears that had sprung to his eyes.

"Honestly, Sherlock, why do you bother?" Mycroft asked. "It's not like he's _dying_."

"I don't care," Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Mummy and Daddy are very displeased with you. You've upset Mummy very much."

"I don't _care._ It doesn't matter. Now go away; I'm busy."

As it turned out, it _did _matter. Mother sat Sherlock down for one of her talks that very day, and the curly-haired boy knew this wouldn't end well.

"You can do so much better than this, Sherlock," she sighed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she gave her son a sad look. "You're a genius, and I just know that you're going to accomplish great things someday. I am sorry about Redbeard, dear, but you've got to accept what's happening. We didn't raise you to just ignore your schoolwork like that."

"I can find a cure," Sherlock snapped. "I know I can! Just let me alone."

Mother's mouth tightened. "We also certainly didn't raise you to show disrespect and to talk back, young man. I'm sorry, but until you can get your grades up again I'm confiscating your chemistry set."

"What?" Sherlock gaped. "Mother, please, no. I could be so close! So close to a cure!"

"Sherlock, I think the best thing to do now is to be with Redbeard, to help him adjust. He'll be alright. You'll see."

"You just…you don't _understand_. None of you understand!" Sherlock shouted, leaping to his feet and sprinting outside, Redbeard close behind him. He ignored Mother's shouts and kept on running, running down the front yard's path and onto the road, tears streaming out the corners of his eyes and flying out behind him. _Why _didn't any of them _get it? _Redbeard was Sherlock's best friend. How could they all just sit there and expect him to be okay with his best friend going blind? How could they expect him not to _do _anything? _They're all so _stupid! _Every one of them! How can they not see?!_

As he ran, Sherlock's senses were withdrawn, and thus, he didn't notice the truck until its horn had started blaring. He hadn't noticed it tearing down where the two roads joined, and just managed to jump out of the way in time.

Redbeard wasn't so lucky.

If his sight had been completely intact, he might have been able to see the oncoming danger and leap to safety as Sherlock had, but instead, he had charged on across, and in that moment, Sherlock remembered that his faithful dog had followed him out, and was waiting for his master to stop running so he could comfort him.

Now, he wasn't comforting anyone.

...

* * *

...

Sherlock didn't listen to a word the vet said. He knew what was coming. He knew all too well. Redbeard's injuries were too severe, and he was suffering. Even an idiot could figure out what came next. He roughly shook off the vet's comforting touch and retreated deep into his mind, but was unable to stop the tears streaming from his eyes. It was all his fault. _All his fault. _It didn't matter that the truck driver had run the stop sign. Sherlock hadn't been paying attention. He had been too withdrawn, too overcome with emotion. If he hadn't run off like that, if he hadn't been on the road, _if, if, if…_

He didn't let Mother or Father touch him. When they tried to hug him, he shrank back, shaking his head, a dangerous look in his eyes. Of course, he needed to give Mycroft no such warning.

...

* * *

...

Mother and Father had spared no expense buying Redbeard a beautiful gravestone. It was marble, was engraved with his name, and was decorated with an imprint of a dog's paw, along with his age and the words _Rest in Peace._

No matter the gravestone's cost, though, it wouldn't bring Sherlock's best friend back. No amount of money in the world could.

Sherlock didn't know how long he had been lying in bed. Sleep was his only escape from the sadness and the tears that were sure to come whenever he would look at the foot of his bed, an imprint still in the blankets where Redbeard had slept with him every night. His smell still lingered as Sherlock stirred, and, for just one moment, as he awoke, he thought Redbeard was there, and that all of this was just a horrible dream. Then the memories of the past few days came crashing back through.

He gazed at that empty spot on his bed, and something snapped within him then. He collapsed onto the spot Redbeard had slept, sobbing, unable to stop as he clutched the blanket to his face. He had cried, before, but he hadn't completely broken down until now. It all hurt so much. It hurt _so much_ to feel all of this. He wished Redbeard were here so he could comfort him…But no, if Redbeard were here, Sherlock wouldn't need comforting in the first place.

The words Mycroft had spoken long ago, when everything was happy, sprang to his mind unbidden. _"Feeling, well, it never ends well, as has been proven over and over again. This won't either, if you carry on like this." _Mycroft had known. He had always known. And Sherlock had ignored him.

He heard his door opening, then closing, then the sound of Mycroft's steps approaching him, but he ignored his brother as he continued crying.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was almost…soft? It was enough to startle Sherlock out of his tears for a few moments, enough time for him to sit up and look at his brother.

"What do you want?" he asked miserably, running his arm across his nose.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft repeated, and Sherlock frowned. Mycroft never repeated himself when he had already made himself heard.

"I tried," his older brother finally continued, after pausing for a moment, his gaze falling down to the floor. "I'm sorry, but I tried to warn you."

"Is…is _that_ the only reason…" Sherlock was unable to continue, but he had stopped crying. He used his other sleeve to wipe the tears away from his red-rimmed eyes. A cold numbness had started to creep its way in, and the boy's gaze was dark as he glanced back up at Mycroft.

Mycroft didn't like this. He didn't like seeing his brother so weak. Whether this was a result of his own weakness, his own sentiment, or of the fact that he knew that Sherlock could function so much better without all that unnecessary emotion, he honestly wasn't sure, and it was a first for him to be unsure.

"Look…" Mycroft paused. "I only wanted to say that…While emotion is a disadvantage, I do, in fact…" Here he struggled, and finally managed to get the word out in a small voice. "…_care_. To the extent of, that is…You are family, and thus…" He trailed off then, words escaping him, causing him to flounder. Another first. Sentiment normally never got the better of Mycroft, and it irritated him. He would have to rectify this.

Sherlock flopped onto his side, facing away from Mycroft. "Is there a point to this?" he asked, his voice empty.

"I only want to ensure, Sherlock, that you don't make this same mistake again. Emotions get in the way. They always have, and they always will. Do you see that, now? Do you understand?"

For a moment, the room was full of silence, and Mycroft looked down at the still, thin form of his younger brother, who had always been so weak, so vulnerable. He didn't see vulnerability now. He saw a wall, a tall, thick wall being built, a wall not only for Mycroft, but for anyone and everything.

Mycroft knew that Sherlock, indeed, finally understood this before the boy slowly nodded.

...

* * *

...

**A/N: **I really think that Redbeard being put down was the turning point when Sherlock decided to close himself off from emotions, and of course, Mycroft would have had a hand in it. That scene with Redbeard in His Last Vow really got to me, and I hadn't been expecting it at all, so it just hit me like a train. If you want to tear my heart out, then the best way to do that is to involve a dead dog. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this. Or, you know, _enjoy _is probably not the right word for something like this…but, yeah. You know what I mean. :)


End file.
